


A Night In Saint Denis

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Orgasm Denial, Voyeurism, vampire reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16774075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The tale of what happened when Arthur Morgan and John Marston went to investigate the estate belonging to the mysterious widow and heiress of Lemoyne.>I'm abandoning this fic for a while because I've lost interest in rdr/with the story in general. I don't know if I'll ever finish it but I'll leave it up for the people who enjoyed what's already been written.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> >DON'T READ THIS FANFIC IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED THE STORY<
> 
> So you're probably wondering "Why would you write something with vampires??" and that is because of a youtube comment I saw where someone said it would be a cool idea if there were vampires if they decided to do Undead Nightmare 2. Ever since then I've been trying to think of a cool way to incorporate them into a reader insert and here we are.
> 
> Hopefully you guys will find it interesting seeing how things would have turned out if there was a vampire involved in the main story since I thought it would be?

Once upon a time there lived a girl in a swamp.

She lived with her father who had taken illness of the brain in recent years, the kind of which there was no treatment. She had never known her mother as she had died when the girl was very young and she hardly remembered her face.

This girl didn’t know the outside world, she’d never experienced those dangers of which her father spoke. As her father’s illness worsened so did his paranoia. He told her that no man would ever be worthy of her. All of them were filthy animals undeserving of her love.

However, the more her father tried to dissuade her from the carnal pleasures to be found in the outside world, the more frustrated she became. She simply couldn’t see things from his point of view and after his passing she made her decision.

She dismissed almost all of her guards save for a few that she’d known for a long time and kept them around for sentimental reasons.

Of course, they weren’t exactly happy with her decision of leaving her father’s sprawling estate practically unguarded. The few men that remained wouldn’t be able to keep her safe. She knew that her family’s wealth would attract all sorts now that her father was dead and not just ‘friends’ of the family interested in getting at her money. This girl wasn’t the empty headed spoiled brat that so many had come to assume. She’d heard the rumors from the guards about her and why she never left the house.

She was horribly deformed.

She was slow and incapable of being around others without pissing herself in fear.

Ridiculous nonsense thought up by bored people with nothing better to do. Secretly, the possibilities thrilled her of what could happen now that she was left exposed to the harshness of reality.

Out of respect for your remaining guards you’d decided to at least remain on the grounds until everything was settled. Your father had angered many people in his final years, his madness causing him to cut ties with nearly all of his business partners and thus cutting off their ties to his money. 

He was never a very likable man even before illness took his mind and only ever showed something like kindness to you. Although, now that you were older you could see that it was obsession not kindness that made you a prisoner in your own estate. You’d assumed it was the same for all the girls around the bayou, that their parents kept them safely locked away like princesses in their high towers waiting for the right prince to come along and rescue them.

Unfortunately life was nothing like a fairy tale.

It was past midnight of October 29th when you decided to head down into the kitchen for a drink. While many of your father’s assets were sold off or taken away from the property his liquor cabinet was still bountiful.

You poured yourself a scotch and eyed the contents as you swirled the amber liquid around the inside of the glass. Your father rarely drank up until the end so adamant on keeping his mind sharp. So certain was he that daggers were held high and waiting for the moment his guard was down. In the end, it seemed that the most bloodthirsty were waiting until after he was already dead before revealing themselves.

It was so much easier having clean hands to fill your pockets when going after the empty-headed heiress.

Eventually you had taken a husband because you were lonely and vulnerable after your father’s passing. You knew that you shouldn’t but it made you feel liberated. It made you feel _real_ and alive. Not as a ghost haunting an empty house like you were now.

His name was Andrew Westerman. From the moment you met him you could tell that he and you were much the same. That the wealth bored you, the idiotic social games that one in your position had to play were meaningless in the grand scheme of it all.

It was a week after your father’s death that Andrew came to you to give his condolences. He was a longtime friend that you’d seen less and less of in the recent years and you’d assumed up until then that he’d forgotten about you altogether.

You’d written to Andrew once a month never getting a reply only to find out that your father had been throwing out your letters instead of sending them. Because of that, Andrew had assumed you’d forgotten about _him_ instead. He’d been worlds away on business and had no idea that your father had died.

You admitted that you felt silly for doubting him but he was so sweet and understanding that you couldn’t help the warm feelings that began to take root deep inside yourself.

After a few months of Andrew coming to see you almost every day he asked for your hand in marriage which you’d happily accepted.

After only three weeks and five days of bliss Andrew was killed during a highway robbery. A gang known as the O’Driscolls were responsible according to the lawmen that turned up at your estate on that cursed day.

It seemed that Andrew was on the way home from Saint Denis and refused to give the gang what they wanted, a necklace he’d bought for you in secret. They’d executed him and left him in the mud to be found a day later after the scavengers of the swamps had already gotten to him.

It was a closed casket funeral of course.

For some reason what you remembered most clearly about that day was how you stared at the Queen’s Orchid that Andrew had picked for you while the sheriff told you how sorry he was for your loss. It was just beginning to wilt and the water had gone brackish.

You’d scolded him for it telling him not to go out there like that again. The area was infested with alligators and all kinds of nasty creatures where the orchids grew and no flower was worth that much trouble.

“I beg to differ, m’am. My flower is _always_ worth all the trouble in the world,” Andrew had said, his fingers lightly brushing back your hair from your scowling brow.

“Goddammit, Andrew.”

He’d laughed and kissed your forehead.

And then he was just gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

You were alone.

Alone and pouring another drink of scotch when you hear it. The unmistakable scuff of a boot on your floor at 12:50 am. You wanted this. Whatever happened you were exhausted and deprived of sensation in the empty void that Andrew had left behind.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the china cabinet’s glass doors, wild eyed and wearing nothing but your nightgown, a tumbler grasped loosely in one hand. You see your father in that moment piss and shit running down his leg as his mind finally fucking dissolved into nothing.

When he had to be restrained to the bed and his screams lasted for hours and hours through the night. Until they followed you into your nightmares and you couldn’t escape.

The tumbler flies from your hand into the cabinet with an ear-splitting crash of broken glass and china. The footsteps pause, the intruders considering the noise.

It sounds like they’re two rooms over in the living area.

You always hated that room. It was full of your father’s hunting trophies. Dead animals with glass eyes that always seemed to stare down at you accusingly, their heads mounted everywhere.

 _Why didn’t you save us,_ they would say. And then you would inevitably think of _him_.

_Why didn’t you save me.. my flower?_

Two men step into view at the opposite end of the dining table.

“Did you hear something?” one of them says, searching for the source of the disturbance with his eyes. Both of their faces are covered and they are dressed like countrymen. 

“Yeah. Look at that,” the other says motioning towards the broken cabinet.

You watch from the darkness, curiously. It’s the first time you’ve seen some of their kind up this close. You’d been brought up around those that dressed well and washed regularly. These two smelled like the road. Like the wilderness itself had embedded it’s way into their skin.

Blood, sweat, gun oil, and leather.

“The hell?”

One of them has discovered the glass and turns it over in his hand. “Ah, dammit,” he says. The scent of blood fills your nostrils as the cut on his finger wells up from where he’s carelessly sliced it in his investigation.

To you, a man’s blood is like flipping through the pages of his journal and learning some of his most well kept secrets. You can’t know everything without tasting him directly, but you know enough. This man has known great loss at some point earlier in his life, probably a wife or lover.

The wound the tragedy has left behind is old and he has almost forgotten how deeply it’s carved itself into his heart.

A deeper, more bittersweet odor that you know very well radiates from the man’s pores and makes his breathing labored and rattle deep inside his chest. You doubt even he realizes how sick he’s becoming but he will soon.

They continue to search your home for any trinkets they might be able to sell for a few dollars, pocketing a few things here and there. When they get to your room they take some of your jewelry including a necklace that was your mothers. The only thing you have of hers.

“Hey, Morgan, look at this. Is this a ruby?”

The two of them stop long enough to debate over whether or not the necklace contains a real ruby in it’s center. Both of them have their backs to your hiding spot so you can’t tell which one of them has it.

It is real as your father once told you - about the size of a quail egg and the color of blood. You used to wear it often when you crept into your parent’s room as a young girl but since the death of your father it’s too much of a reminder that all you have left of your parents are trinkets and your memories. Memories drenched in blood and pain.

They take it and move on.

You follow without really knowing why. You could confront them now. You could easily stop them if you wanted. They slip out the way they came with hardly a jingle of their spurs. You might have been impressed if you weren’t a hand’s width away from them the entire time.

It was hardly fair to compare their abilities to yours.

It would be like comparing a deer to a cougar.

You watch them mount up and ride away. Smiling to yourself you go to your room and take out a piece of parchment and a pen. You begin to write:

_I’m going hunting._

_I’m not sure when I’ll return so please keep an eye on things for me._

_Thank you as always for your loyalty._

You pause then add:

_P.S._

_Don’t come searching for me as it would be a waste of everyone’s time._

Satisfied, you leave the note on the dining room table for the guards to find at dusk when they bring in your meal.

A short while later you find that the men have stopped to set up camp. One of them is butchering a deer while the other works on gathering branches for firewood. The scent of the animal’s blood makes your mouth water and you regret not feeding properly at the estate.

“Damn, I’m tired.” The speaker has scars on one side of his face and long dark hair. The other has his back to you and grunts noncommittally in reply to his friend’s complaint. 

Once the deer is butchered they roast it’s flesh over the fire and talk for a while. Mostly about a man called ‘Dutch’. You think you may have heard of him before.

The discussion is ended by the sick man breaking down into a coughing fit after taking a bite of overcooked deer.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters after finally recovering.

His friend doesn’t seem convinced.

 _You aren’t fine_ , you think. _Not that it’s my concern._

“I’m just gonna get some rest. We’ll head back to camp in the mornin’.”

“Alright.”

Morgan’s friend is clearly troubled but doesn’t press the matter.

You wait about an hour until you know both of them are asleep before slipping into Morgan’s tent. His satchel is lying right next to his head, and it’s a 50/50 shot as to whether the necklace is inside. The tent is too narrow to crawl around so you crawl over him instead.

Even though you know you shouldn’t - you stop and stare at him. He’s quite handsome for a criminal, you think.

In that moment he groans in his sleep and his head falls to the side baring his throat to you. Intense hunger washes over you so suddenly that you must have made a sound of some kind because the next thing you know his eyes are open and he’s staring back at you in shock.

You’re caught off guard by their color, a brilliant hue of green that reminds you of sunlight shining through the grass in spring. He starts to say something, whether to cry for help or ask what the hell you’re doing you’ll never know because you speak first.

_“Don’t move.”_

He goes still as a corpse, his lips still parted just enough that a startled noise slips out. He strains against your command, all of his muscles going taut in the effort, but nothing happens.

You smile.

You had forgotten what it was like to hold power over someone like this and it makes you feel both totally in control and on the edge of losing control entirely.

“What do you want?” he grates out in a whisper.

In the darkness of the tent the only thing visible to him is the shape of your body silhouetted by the fire outside. To you everything appears more vibrant, every detail brought into focus by the night. You can see the sheen of sweat on Morgan’s chest and the layer of grime that sticks to it. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes darting around blindly as he tries to see your face.

“Break into any houses recently, Mr. _Morgan_ ,” you say making a point to use his name. His breath catches slightly and you have to respect how his heartbeat stays steady not betraying any signs of fear.

“There was some- you were there?”

You say nothing letting him suffocate in in silence for several moments.

“I was this close the entire time you pigs rooted through my things,” you say, eventually, right next to his ear making him inhale sharply. “Didn’t you notice?”

How tempting it is this close to him to just let your teeth penetrate his flesh. To allow that hot, wet wellspring of life to come forth and bathe your tongue until he has nothing left to give except his death. Would the world be any less of a place without someone like this in it?

But it wouldn’t satisfy you to end things that quickly.

“Who are you?” you ask. “Are you an O’Driscoll?”

“No. Why would you-“

“Are there more of you?”

You already know the answer to this. You knew from their earlier conversation about Dutch that they belong to a gang. Morgan doesn’t answer.

“You really should answer the question. I can be very persuasive.”

He still doesn’t answer and you click your tongue disapprovingly sitting back on his legs. You feel something hot and hard under your ass and you laugh in disbelief at the discovery that the man has a fucking erection.

“That isn’t because of you,” he mumbles. “It just.. happens. During sleep.” He’s actually embarrassed enough to explain himself. How sweet.

A wild idea springs into your head right then, it’s the perfect way to get back at him. Or at least a start, you think. There is a noticeable rise of colour in his cheeks beneath the dirt and for the first time his heart flutters unevenly. So this is something that unsettles him more than your inexplicable control over his body. What a strange person.

You listen carefully to see if the man in the other tent has noticed anything amiss but he continues to snore peacefully.

_“Take out your cock.”_

“No! Hey, hold on!” His hands are already working at his belt and all the while he struggles to regain control over himself. Morgan is finally starting to panic as he becomes fully aware that this isn’t a dream. He fights until the very end until he’s breathless and his half-hard cock is gripped loosely, almost awkwardly, in hand.

Morgan glares at you in defiance and the sight of it makes your cunt tingle. Most men would be screaming and pissing themselves in terror. It’s a rare gift to find one who even after discovering your truth could still remain so strong. Perhaps there's more to to men from the country after all.

“Where is your camp, Mr. Morgan?”

The question is pointless. You could easily pick up the two men’s trail the next night even if they had a full day’s lead on you. You’re merely toying with him to see if he values his pride or his loyalty to Dutch more.

He doesn’t answer.

You ache, feeling that exquisite pressure at your core building in anticipation. You think even if he had given up right then and told you everything you wouldn’t have stopped. You couldn’t have stopped.

_“Stroke your cock.”_

He’s about eight inches fully erect and a single thick vein pulses along the side. You want to run your tongue over it so badly that you have to clench you thighs for momentary relief. He’s thick too, his balls big and heavy where they rise and fall with the movement of his hand.

_Not yet._

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Arthur,” he says. “Arthur Morgan. _Fuck._ ” The last comes out breathlessly, the sound of his hand on his cock growing wetter as he coats himself in his own fluids.

“Arthur Morgan..” A name you would commit to memory. Your head throbs in the damp heat of Arthur’s tent. He moves faster, his hips snapping up into his fist with the growing need for release.

 _“Slower. If you feel yourself about to come, stop.”_ You feel yourself grinning at the involuntary groan that slips out through gritted teeth at your command. The cut on his hand is bleeding freely at this point mixing with his arousal. You lower your head and flick the end of your tongue ever so lightly against the bulbous head needing a taste of him and your eyes nearly roll back just as his do.

_More._

Unable to control yourself you take him into your mouth and suck enthusiastically swiping up his mingling essence onto your tongue. “Ah!” he cries out at the unexpected length of your tongue and the dexterity of your movements.

Absently, you’re aware that you’re being too reckless and Arthur is being much too loud but it’s hard for you to give a damn when you pull his fingers into your mouth and suck at his wound hungrily. His blood is sinfully decadent and whispers the fleeting details of Arthur Morgan’s life.

You know that you’ve gone too far but you can’t stop. It’s already too late. You share in his every pain, his every pleasure and his every fear. He knows that his time is coming to an end soon because Dutch is no longer the man he knew. Or perhaps he’s simply chosen not to notice the truth. He knows that something is wrong with his body but is too afraid to go to a doctor.

It’s what he deserves, he thinks. For all of his misdeeds.

Deeper within you discover Arthur Morgan wants for things to be different. He could have been a better man. He could have been a father to his son. He could have been a husband. Now they are gone. No more chances to be had.

The details of his life are interwoven as delicate threads, each to be pulled and unraveled so that you know the truth. Tonight, Arthur felt self-doubt as he has for a while now.

 _Am I doing the right thing?_ He thinks, his inner voice uncertain. Your mother’s necklace sparkles as you see it through his eyes, his memories shifting to the present. He takes it from the other man, John Marston, and puts it in his own satchel.

Abruptly, you’re pulled back into reality, left disoriented as his memories overlay the real world causing double vision. You had nearly forgotten how you had left things but Arthur’s hoarse groan reminds you. His fingers are clamped around the base of his cock denying him release, leaving the glans flushed a deep red. He’s an absolute mess and you realize that a lot more time passed than you’d anticipated while you were connected.

The sun is beginning to rise.

 _Fuck_.

You have no choice but to cut your fun short if you’re to make it into the ground in time. “You can’t leave me like this,” he says. You consider him for a moment and then one final, evil idea springs into your head.

 _“You’re free to do as you will.”_ You say, turning sidelong as you leave his tent so that the rising sun’s orange glow shows him that you are smiling as you finish the command, _“But you can’t come.”_

And then you’re gone. You can hear the horses whinnying behind you, spooked by your exit. You return to the shallow grave you prepared earlier, taking off your clothes and hiding them in the roots of a nearby tree.

The fresh earth feels wonderfully cool against your bare flesh as you rake it in over yourself and settle in for the next nightfall.


	2. Chapter Two

_Something is wrong._

You know it as soon as you open your eyes for two reasons, the first being that it’s still the middle of the day. The second is the connection you have with Arthur ripples in distress making your ears ring and head throb in response.

Whatever is happening must be quite serious.

You shift around in the hopes of falling asleep once more before dusk, annoyed that your rest was interrupted. No matter how hard you try to block him out his suffering still comes through.

_Piss on this._

It would take a while, at least another few days before the blood tie to him would sever and the punishment for your gluttony would be over. Still, you would look into the matter, even though you hated being out during the day.

You hated stupid, handsome outlaws even more.

You’d chosen a well shaded area to rest just in case something like this were to happen. You pull on your clothes in a hurry, trousers, a long sleeve shirt and hat with a mask for your face and gloves to protect your hands. Men's clothing for practicality and to avoid drawing attention.

It probably wouldn't help much.

Now, on to to find that trail.

The task is made somewhat more difficult by Arthur’s pain and the pressure of being awake during unnatural hours. As you don’t have the night on your side you use your sense of smell rather than visual guidance to track him. It leads you to a camp not far from Rhodes set up on the edge of Flat Iron Lake.

You watch for a time in seclusion and it doesn’t take long to see that the entire camp is in an agitated state. You see the man from the other tent from before, John Marston, speaking with Micah and Dutch. One word is being used a lot between the three men as they argue about something that has gone wrong and involves Arthur.

_O’Driscoll._

You bury a snarl in your throat as your hands tighten into fists. You had promised yourself never to act out in violence against humans in honor of your late husband. It was what he would have wanted as he was a peaceful, caring soul not meant for the brutalities of this world.

_And now he’s dead._

Arthur’s suffering intensifies without warning and you grab at your shoulder falling to your knees with a wince.

It would be impossible to find him like this.

You would have to wait until nightfall which was still about three hours off and hope that he was still alive by then. From the state of things, it was doubtful that Arthur would be killed anytime soon, otherwise they would have done it already. Going by what you had discovered from Arthur’s thoughts the O’Driscolls were a vile bunch not hesitant to kill whenever they felt like it whether it was warranted or not. Not that you hadn’t already known as much. So, it stood to reason they had something else in mind for the outlaw.

Arthur would just have to keep it together for a few more hours.

The scars at the corners of your mouth tingle as you recall the taste of him, the sight of him beneath you, and the way his voice had gone hoarse towards the end. A pleasant distraction from the phantom pain that plagues you.

~*~

When you arrive at the O’Driscoll encampment you see Arthur slipping away on his horse under the cover of darkness. Two patrols nearly spot him on the way out but he manages to evade them and ride off. He’s barely conscious and in immense pain but he’ll live.

It’s probably best that he isn’t around for what comes now, you think.

“Oi! What the hell are you supposed to be?” One of the patrols has noticed you and you tilt your head at him in acknowledgement. He comes closer and you see that he has a bottle in one hand while the other rests at his gun.

He’s drunk, relaxed and not expecting when your fingers crush his windpipe in a single, precise jab to silence him. He goes down choking and struggling to breathe and you step over him knowing he doesn’t have long until lack of oxygen makes him pass out entirely.

You dispatch the rest of the men until only one remains without a single shot being fired. His fear is pleasurable to you in a different way when it seeps from his skin and fills his eyes. Instead of a sexual response it triggers a more ancient, primal instinct of the hunter that has the rabbit cornered. The O’Driscoll tries rather foolishly to pull his gun on you but you take his hand in yours and squeeze until you feel the bones shatter and his hand goes limp. Still not satisfied you pull until you feel his elbow joint separate and finally you let go, his arm now useless.

“Sonofabitch! Fuck..” his screams and cursing become a senseless mess.

You watch dispassionately as he rolls onto his side and vomits overcome with the pain.

“You.. You have no idea who you’re messin’ with do you?” he says with far too much dignity. You laugh at him and take him up by the jaw, lifting him off the ground until his feet dangle and kick in a weak attempt to break free.

“Do you think I’d be here otherwise, dumbass?” you say, shaking him back and forth. When you snap his neck it’s almost disappointing to end it so soon but you need to get back to Arthur.

When you find him he’s lying in the middle of the road, his horse a short distance away. She fidgets nervously at you approach but doesn’t run away as you would have expected. “You must really love your man, huh, girl?” you say, keeping your voice low and comforting. No need to push your luck with her if she’s willing to tolerate you this much. Arthur stirs at the sound of your voice and cracks an eye open.

“The hell are you supposed to be?” he says, an imitation of the O'Driscoll from earlier.

You slap him on the back of the head, going down on one knee next to him in the dirt. “Christ, Mr. Morgan. At least I’m not an O’Driscoll.” You can feel the dull ache of his shoulder wound from how he’s landed sprawled out with his full weight crushed against it.

He’s done a haphazard job of cauterizing it so at least the risk of infection would be minimal.

“You gonna stare at me all night or are you gonna help me out, here?” he says already trying to get back up on his own. "Or if you're gonna kill me just do it already."

Annoyed, you help him to his feet with the added comment “If only so that you’re not blocking the road for everyone else.” To which he snorts in response. He takes so long getting back into the saddle that you consider just setting him up on it yourself but that would raise even more questions that you weren’t really in the mood for answering. He doesn’t notice the unnatural grace in which you slide onto the saddle behind him until your arm is around his chest helping to balance him.

Arthur is quiet and doesn’t ask how you found him or why you were out this late on foot. The two of you just ride in silence punctuated by his horse’s breathing. It isn’t until the camp is in sight that you realize it’s because Arthur has passed out again.

You slip away into the woods once you know he can make it back on his own and listen to the sounds of the camp as the people there notice Arthur’s return. They help him to his tent and amidst the worried chatter you hear Dutch, “You’re safe now.”

“That’s pretty Dutch,” Arthur laughs, humorlessly. “That’s real pretty.”

“Miss Grimshaw, will you sit with him a while?” Dutch says, his emotions tightly controlled.

“Of course,” Grimshaw replies.

As Dutch turns away you catch a flash of anger on his face and you wonder who that anger is really directed at. You sit back in the trees keeping watch until morning when you have no choice but to go and rest.

Arthur still has your necklace after all it would be a shame if something were to happen to it.

It takes three nights of hanging back in the trees until you finally slip into camp after everyone but the night watch has gone to sleep. Dutch is also still up reading a book in his tent but you doubt he would notice you any more than the blind fool holding a gun that you walked past closely enough to give a good slap on his ass.

Arthur is snoring softly and you can see the edges of the dressing on his shoulder peeking out from his open shirt. You’re tempted to peel it back and see that it’s healing properly but he would probably wake if you did. At the least you press your fingers to his skin and check for fever, satisfied when you find no heat surrounding the wound. His body heat feels nice under your touch - something you can never have on your own so you share in his.

You rest your head on your arms and watch him sleep for a time. On occasion, he mumbles and his eyelids flicker with the movement of his eyes beneath. You wonder what it’s like to dream. Sleep for you is more like death so you’ve never experienced it.

You find yourself moving closer to him until your head rests against his side. You’re shocked at how much you’ve missed the touch of a living being and how quickly you’ve forgotten what that feels like. You consider taking off your mask to feel him against your cheek.

“You know I was startin’ to wonder if you’re even real.”

Startled, you launch backwards, so lost in your own head that you didn’t hear Arthur had stopped snoring. He doesn’t seem put off, strangely enough. He’s bemused, instead, his eyes crinkling up with a suppressed smile.

“Why would you think otherwise?” you smirk from behind your mask knowing he can’t see.

“I don’t know. You turn up when I’m half dead and here you are again in the middle of the night. I could still be dreamin’ right now,” he says with a careful shrug. “You’re certainly not like anyone I’ve ever met that’s for sure. And I’ve come across all sorts of people here lately.”

“Who knows,” you say. “It’s feels like I’m more spirit than alive these days. You could be right.”

_Until I met you._

The intrusive thought whispers across the back of your mind like an accusation. You choose to ignore it and risk sitting a little closer to Arthur if only to re-situate yourself from the awkward position in which you’d landed from earlier in your hasty retreat.

“Why d’you wear that thing?” his question comes when you adjust your mask a little self-consciously and your eyes dart back to his face searching for any signs that he could be teasing or mocking you.

Finding none, you let out a small sigh considering your answer.

“I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” he adds quickly. “It’s just unsettlin’ is all. Somebody coverin’ their face like that. Especially with, well, _that_.”

“It’s a long story, Mr. Morgan, best saved for another time I’m afraid. For now I think it’s best that you get some rest.”

“Thought I was already asleep.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Morgan,” you say, rising to your feet in a single fluid motion and going to his side, right next to his ear. “I’ll be right here the _whole time_.”

He gasps, “You..!”

_“Go back to sleep, you fool.”_

And he does, in moments he’s snoring peacefully once more and before leaving you arrange him more comfortably so that his head is back on the pillow. The unwelcome image of your father passed out after one of his fits reminds you of how many times you had to carry him up to bed and arrange him just like this after he’d banished the help. His refusal to trust anyone had left no-one but you and he in the hell he’d created in that house.

Angry, you bring your attention back to the present, to the man in front of you. You focus on him to calm yourself and notice a single lock of hair has fallen down across his brow. It’s soft between your fingers as you smooth it back in a gesture of tenderness that surprises you.

You’re always so off-guard around him and you’re not sure how you feel about that.

For the rest of Arthur’s recovery you decide it’s best to stay away.

That doesn’t stop you from watching him every night.

He sleeps mostly in the beginning, Miss Grimshaw or one of the others bringing him food until he gets annoyed with all the attention. “I can do it myself, thank you,” he says, waving away one of the girls, _Tilly,_ if you remember right. His dismissal is entirely good-natured.

Afterwards, he sketches in his journal for a time and you find yourself more curious about it than you should be. It’s very late by the time he finishes and puts it away back inside his satchel rubbing at his eyes.

This time he doesn’t head straight to bed as you’d have expected. He seems agitated until, finally, he slips away into the trees not far from camp. He isn’t wearing his holster so you assume he’s just gone out to take a piss and can afford him at least that much privacy. However, that isn’t the case when it takes much longer than any trip to relieve oneself normally should.

Curious, you slip around hanging far enough back that he won’t notice you and what you see is unexpected. Arthur is standing with one hand braced against the tree that was hiding him from you, legs apart, one hand on his cock. To anyone else it would indeed look like a man taking a piss in the middle of the night.

Perhaps that’s what he intended for anyone who might notice his absence and come looking. They wouldn’t see the desperate way his hand is moving or hear the quiet, rough exhales as he struggles towards an end he isn’t going to reach, that _you’ve_ denied him.

Arthur’s pants have fallen down around his hips enough that the swell of his buttocks are visible and you imagine holding onto him while he fucks you. He’d probably try to retain his dignity at first, you think. He wouldn’t beg you right away to free him from the thrall but you’re certain he would eventually. You knew it could get very painful for a man who couldn’t orgasm given enough time no matter how indifferent that man tried to be to everything.

Your fingers are on your sex before you can stop yourself, rubbing your clit and spreading your juices for smoother friction.

How rough would he be with you if you released him from the thrall right now? Would he shove you down right here on your hands and knees taking you like some beast? He wasn’t the type to act out in violence against women in most situations but this would be different. This would be pent up frustration and anger at you for leaving him in such in a state.

For that, he’d have to punish you.

You bite your lip slipping two fingers inside your cunt, feeling your pulse throbbing there, not bothering to take more time to adjust yourself. You remember how he tasted smeared with blood and leaking precum and slip the fingers of your other hand into your mouth sucking on them in an imitation of sucking a cock. You hook your fingers and circle them over that spot right past your entrance that has you stifling a groan.

In a heightened sense of arousal your fangs drop, extending from the roof of your mouth to their full length. They cut into your hand but you barely notice enough to care focused fully on Arthur and your own pleasure.

 _“Jesus..”_ his voice is so beautifully ragged that you nearly peak from that alone.

You pull open the buttons on your shirt to tug at a nipple, already hard from the chills that wash over you. You let your eyes slip closed so that you can be immersed entirely in sensation. Nothing but the feeling of being fucked by your own hand, the wet sounds coming from your own body, and Arthur..

_So close, so close._

When you come you're totally silent, contracting around your fingers in need of a cock that isn’t there. When you open your eyes Arthur is looking right at you. You’d unconsciously moved out into the light from the camp so that he can see you - in your desire to be closer to him.

Instead of moving to hide yourself you pull the fingers from your cunt and put them in your mouth licking them clean.

His turn to watch you.

Blood and salt mixes on your tongue.

Like Arthur.

Neither of you move or speak.

“Arthur!” There’s a shout from camp, Dutch has noticed his absence after all. When Arthur looks back up you’ve vanished into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reeeeee am I doing good I don't know is it in character am I ok sis


	3. Chapter Three

You have to stay away from Arthur.

That means no more watching him or creeping into his tent in the middle of the night.

Which as it turns out is easier said than done.

You decide to pass the time by hunting and spending time out in nature to help clear your head. For the most part, after a while, it works and for weeks you don’t think of him hardly at all.

That is until one day in Valentine as you’re coming out of the general store you see him going into the hotel. He looks like someone has rolled him down a rocky hill headfirst with the way he’s covered in small cuts and bruises.

It’s dangerous to go after him during the day like this; you’d be weakened to the point of having normal, human strength. In short, if he found out who you were the only way you could stop him if he tried to attack you would be by using the thrall on him.

You follow him inside without hesitation.

The bespectacled hotel manager acknowledges you with no more than a confused raise of his eyebrow when you quickly shuffle in before the door can close then turns his attention back to Arthur. “Haven’t seen you around in a while what can I do you for?”

Arthur drops some money down on the counter, “I need a wash.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Just one minute and I’ll have it ready.”

“Thank you.” Arthur sounds tired and walks with a noticeable limp as he drags himself towards the back already shedding his clothes. You can tell that he’s sicker than the last time you saw him, enough so that it’s starting to show on the outside.

You slip by the manager, _“Nothing is out of the ordinary.”_

“Alright then,” he says in a dreamy sort of way, staring vacantly past you.

You wait until you hear the splash of water before knocking on the door. “Can I help out with that?” You call out in a sweet voice that sounds nothing like yours. There’s a moment of silence before he answers, somewhat reluctantly, “Yeah, why not.”

You’re not wearing your mask when you go in and instead keep your head down letting your hair fall to cover your face. Arthur doesn’t react as you hurry to move around behind him out of sight. You take up the wash cloth from where it hangs over the side of the bath tub.

“You poor thing. You look worn out,” you say, lightly wiping at a spot of grime on his upper arm. This is the first time you’ve seen him fully undressed and you have to take a moment to appreciate every inch of him that isn’t covered by soap suds.

“That I am,” he sighs, relaxing back into the hot water. You move over to the other arm careful to stay back out of his line of sight. The wound on his shoulder has fully healed leaving a scar that looks a bit like a flower behind. You trail your fingers over it feeling out it’s rough imperfections, recalling how you’d shared it’s pain.

“Shotgun,” Arthur says.

“Really? It must have hurt a hell of a lot to leave a scar like this,” you say. He hums in response and you take note of how stiff he seems around his shoulders and neck. “I could help you out with all this soreness – I’m quite good at giving a massage.”

“Sure,” he says. “Can’t hurt. Much worse anyhow.”

The moment you grab him, however, he flinches away, “Damn, your hands are freezing.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m anemic, had it since I was little,” you say, a practiced lie.

_There’s a reason that I live in the swamps, Mr. Morgan,_ you think. _The reason being that it gets too cool over this way for someone like me and people start to notice things._

You find all the twisted, stubborn spots in his muscles and viciously knead them out earning you an appreciative slew of groaning.

“You weren’t lyin’ about being good at this,” he murmurs, nothing left but a puddle of a man.

“Good to hear, mister.”

Much like yourself Arthur’s body paints a picture of the life he’s led. One that has left him covered in scars some of which you can tell were caused either by a stab wound or a gunshot here or there. One beneath his arm looks like it was caused by an animal, a wolf perhaps.

You feel the urge to press a kiss to each one.

Such thoughts are cut abruptly short when there’s a knock at the door and a woman calls from outside, “Anything I can assist you with?”

“We’re fine,” you say, quickly. Too quickly. You realize too late that you’ve fucked up when the woman outside, the one that’s supposed to be _inside_ right now expresses her surprise, “Oh! That’s odd I could have sworn I was the only one workin’ here today..”

_Shit._

You think for only a second that maybe Arthur wouldn’t put it together. But when he tenses under you - you know that he knows.

Of course he would.

_Stupid._

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes.

Son of a bitch indeed.

Water explodes from the tub as you turn to escape and Arthur’s hand clamps down over your mouth from behind pulling you back into him before you can utter a single syllable to stop him. No matter how you struggle in his grip you’re too weakened by the daylight to do much of anything. To make matters worse your body is reacting to being held onto to by a very naked Arthur and you have to fight against your natural urge to relax back into him and just enjoy being so close to him.

“Not as easy gettin’ your revenge when you can’t use that freak show power of yours is it?” he says, his voice low and right up next to your ear.

It sends shivers down your spine right where Arthur’s hard cock is pressed up against you.

_Jesus Christ._

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, you’d just wanted to share a moment with him, to see him again one last time and then you would have freed him from the thrall and never saw him again. That was the plan.

That was how it should have ended.

“So what are you? Some kinda demon or..?” he lets the question hang.

You have to laugh at that.

“You think this is funny? Everything is just a big game to you because you can just tell anybody to do anything and they got no choice but to go along with it,” he says, moving in even closer until his lips brush the shell of your ear when he speaks again.

“Now you’re gonna do what _I_ say,” his words are laced with dark promise.

Moments later you have a gag in your mouth and Arthur is dragging you towards the hotel stairs after tossing more money at the manager for a room.

“Alright then,” is all he says, not acknowledging the struggling girl or the angry man who hadn’t even bothered to pull on a shirt and instead elected to shove it in your mouth.

You think perhaps you’ve outdone yourself with how reckless you’ve been today.

You're dragged along until you're inside the room and the door is slammed and locked behind you.

You land on the bed on your back with a soft _fwump_ and then Arthur is there with you crawling up between your legs where they’ve ended up conveniently spread apart. His hardened cock hasn’t gone soft for even a moment the entire time and it presses urgently against the inside of his pants, it’s impressive outline plainly visible.

The sunlight streams in through the crack in the curtains and you accidentally put your hand in it with a yelp in your attempt to to get farther away. Arthur mistakes it for you trying to escape him and he pins you down with a growl.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?”

You glare at him.

“Now then,” he says, a faint smile playing on those full lips of his. “Here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna take that out of your mouth and you’re gonna fix whatever the hell this shit is.”

He motions at his cock as _if_ you don’t know what shit he's talking about. “You do that and I don’t put a bullet in your head. Sounds fair don’t it?”

Arthur takes his revolver out and trails the end of the barrel from where the swell of your breasts are exposed from the buttons popping loose all the way to the side of your throat pressing it into your chin.

“You gonna be civil about this?” he says, dragging the hammer back with a click to emphasize his point.

You nod.

At last the cloth is pulled from your mouth which is now dry and faintly salty from where his sweat has soaked into it.

“I thought you were against civilization, Mr. Morgan.”

“Don’t try gettin’ clever with me right now, girl. I ain’t in no mood for it.”

It’s very clear what Arthur _is_ in the mood for when you run your tongue over your lips to wet them and his heated gaze slides down to your mouth. You can feel the weight of his eyes as he sees you, _really_ sees you for the first time. He sees your scars, a horrible past written into your flesh until the end of time so you could never forget even if you wanted to.

“Who did that to you?” Arthur wonders aloud and goddamn him he almost sounds _sympathetic_.

“Why do you care?” you say.

“I don’t. I was just curious is all. I’ve seen all kinds of scars but nothing like those. It looks like somebody cut you up pretty good. That why you wear that creepy old mask?”

“They did,” you say. “And it is. Partly the reason.”

He makes a thoughtful noise in his throat considering you with those blue-green eyes of his. A sense of longing washes over you and you have the urge to drink from him and regain the lost blood connection that you shared just so you could better understand what he’s feeling right now.

You wouldn’t drink from his throat, you think. You’d take the blood from the artery near the groin to avoid drawing attention to the bite marks you would leave. Besides, most men seemed to prefer it that way or so you’d been told, it was pleasurable for a human.

Andrew had never been comfortable enough with that side of you to indulge your curiosity of feeding during sex. He’d merely tolerated that you were a vampire and it hadn’t ended well for either of you.

“I’m waitin’,” Arthur says, at the end of his patience.

You open your mouth to speak with all the things you could say flying through the back of your mind.

_I can’t stop thinking about you. I know more about you than anyone ever will and I_ understand _. I understand what it is to be taken in by a foster parent and have them disappoint you again and again. I also understand what it’s like to be hunted like an animal never knowing when they’re finally going to catch up no matter how far you run._

_It’s so easy to be hardened to this world yet so difficult to soften to it._

_I understand._

_“I release you,”_ you say.

Arthur visibly shudders as the thrall leaves his body, his eyes slipping shut as he white knuckles the sheets next to your head. You take advantage of the moment, knocking the gun away and reversing your positions with you on top, straddling his waist.

“The hell..?” he slurs, in a daze.

“Feeling a little strange, Mr. Morgan? It takes a minute before you’ll recover and things start working properly again I’m afraid.”

_That’s why I need to leave you now._

You take the stairs two at a time on the way down, grabbing your mask from it’s hiding place and adjusting your ruined shirt the best you can. There’s a tightness in your chest that makes it difficult to breathe , makes it difficult because you know what _could_ be.

It could also be another Andrew.

When you step out into the sun it burns your eyes more than usual. It also distracts you from the men on either side of you so you don’t see the gun stock that cracks your skull or comprehend the darkness that follows.

When you regain consciousness it’s to a room that smells of blood and distant decay. A room that no doubt has seen others in the same position as you. You can’t see anything at the moment because there’s a bag over your head and your hands are tied around the back of the chair you’re sitting in.

For one heart-stopping moment you think _he’s_ finally found you but after a quick reassessment you recognize a familiar scent. The bag is lifted and you squint your eyes allowing them to adjust.

“That’s her! That’s the bitch that killed our boys!”

_I didn’t kill enough, apparently._

Next, your mask is pulled off.

The O’Driscoll holding the bag whistles in disbelief, “You sure she killed anybody? She looks like she couldn’t handle her way around my cock let alone a gun.”

“She didn’t _use_ a gun, jackass. Like I said before she was like some - some witch with how fast she was moving. We didn’t stand a chance.”

“You didn’t stand a chance you damned fool. It’s hardly surprising to hear that from you.”

“Oh shit, she’s awake.”

Everything is blurry, made more so by something warm that trickles into your eye and you shake your head trying to dispel it. You can tell it’s still around midday by the way heavy fatigue settles into your bones and leaves you sluggish. You’re not much better off than Arthur in this state.

“Goddamn. No husband for this one. Look at her,” Bag Man has his fingers clamped on your jaw twisting your face this way and that for better inspection. “I’ve seen cows that look prettier than her.”

“I’m sure you have,” quips the other.

They share a laugh.

From what you can tell there are four distinct scents, two men inside the house and two outside standing guard. They must not have seen you go into the hotel with Arthur otherwise that would lead to even more problems.

There’s only one way to play this and that’s to stall for time. So you do the only thing you can do.

You start to cry.

“I-I-I don’t know w-what you’re talking about,” you babble. “I’d only just went into town for supplies..”

Bag Man laughs, “Look at this now. This is your viscous killer, Seamus? You sure you ain’t been drinkin’ too much again?”

And then you remember him, the first watchmen that you took down. The drunk man whom you’d hit in the throat.

“Does this look like something I’d do to myself?” The Drunk points at his throat, still bruised from that night. So he did survive, the fucking bastard.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“And how the hell do you explain all the rest?”

“Probably not in a way that begins with ‘A woman came up to me and then killed everyone. Oh, but I was knocked out the entire time so I didn’t actually see it happen.’ Probably something like that.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you decide to take the opportunity to up the ante on your performance. “My daughter is still in Valentine. She’s only a little thing if I’m not there..” you trail off into a guttural sob. “Please, sir I know you wouldn’t k-keep a mother from her child.”

“She’s lyin’,” The Drunk says. He sounds desperate. “How many masks have you seen like that? Who wears a fuckin’ mask all the time?”

“ _Us_ ,” Bag Man says, tugging at the green bandana that covers the lower half of his face.

“That’s not the same!”

“So now I’m to believe that all masks are inherently evil? Is that what you’re sayin’, now?”

“N-No! What-”

“You’re saying that there’s a cursed mask that would, say, cause the dead to rise from their graves and kill us.” Bag Man is waving your mask around as he speaks and The Drunk’s eyes follow it as if he expects to attack him.

“What the- where did _that_ come from?”

“I’m just sayin’ _that_ sounds about as likely as your story.”

“It’s not a story, goddammit. It’s what really happened.”

All the while you tremble with suppressed laughter keeping your face neutral so it seems like you’re trying not to cry. How much luckier could you get with the two dumbest O’Driscoll men taking you prisoner?

In a day of unfortunate choices that lead to you getting caught not once but twice things could definitely be worse. Of course, if they decided to search your body for clues that would be another matter entirely.

“C-Can you please let me go now?”

Bag Man laughs in a way that you don’t like. “After all this trouble it would be a shame to not get _somethin’_ out of it. If we put the bag back on we can make it work don’t you think, Seamus?”

“You-! You sick bastard that’s the only reason you went along with this!”

“You know how I feel about payin’ for cunt. Why should I waste my money on whores when I could just get it for free?” Bag Man says, his words careless as if he’s talking about going on a nice carriage ride. “Besides, we’d practically be doin’ her a favor with a face like that. She probably hasn’t had a good fuck in years. Isn’t that right sweetheart?”

“I’m not goin’ along with this,” says The Drunk, making no move to help you, either.

“Whatever. More for me,” Bag Man says, dismissing his fellow with a wave.

You start to laugh.

Bag Man pauses from where he’s gone to untie you. The Drunk looks as if he’s on the verge of soiling himself. “I-I told you,” he whispers so that only you can hear. “I told you somethin’ ain’t right about her. I told you..”

You speak at length, “Can I just ask one thing? If you’re going to rape me can you at least do it from behind so I don’t have to look at you? Because I’ve seen cow _shit_ that’s prettier than you, friend.”

“Fuckin’ whore,” Bag Man snarls, and backhands you. You can feel your cheek burst open against your teeth and taste blood spreading over your tongue.

“You think that hurts?” you scoff, grinning at him, all sharp teeth and you can see the color draining from his face. A skeptic made a believer.

Hallelujah.

“What in God’s name..”

“You know, I was just stalling for time before but I don’t think I can listen to the sound of your voice for another minute,” you say, rolling your neck with a series of cracks.

You channel all of your remaining energy into snapping the ropes and they break easily as twine. Bag Man has time to register what you’ve done and get a hand on his pistol by the time you’re on top of him, hands at his throat and knees pinning down his arms.

The Drunk seems to have had a leave of his senses and continues to whisper nonsense the entire time, edging towards the door.

His escape is cut short by an explosion of activity outside. Shouting followed by gunshots and The Drunk tries to hide himself and peek through the curtains.

Meanwhile, you feel Bag Man’s life fluttering weakly beneath your fingers and stop yourself before he expires. You drag him up by the throat and pin him against the wall, going in close to whisper in his ear.

A final secret to be shared between the two of you.

“Do you think this is how all those women before me felt? When you gave ‘em a good fuckin’?” you say in a mockery of his accent. “Did they piss themselves, too?”

The door bursts open, kicked from the outside and The Drunk tries to scramble away for cover but a bullet goes straight through his head with a spray of blood where it comes out through his eye and he goes down.

You lock eyes with Arthur, who followed after you because _of course_ he would, and bite into Bag Man’s throat with an audible crunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos. Love hearing what you guys think. <3


	4. Chapter Four

You don’t allow Bag Man to die from bleeding out as you might have liked so you break his neck one-handed. Partly because he won’t stop screaming – you weren’t lying when you said you didn’t want to hear his voice anymore. The other reason being to stop a blood connection being made. You didn’t want to subject yourself to seeing the atrocities the man had most likely committed given what he’d planned to do to you just minutes before.

You bring your attention back to Arthur after you’ve killed Bag Man and see that he hasn’t moved from the doorway. He’s paralyzed by uncertainty, his hand hovering over his holster, refusing to come any closer to you.

Once you’ve had your fill you let go so that Bag Man’s body hits the floor with a thump and that seems to rouse Arthur from the trance seeing you has left him in.

“So.. that’s it then. You’re a vampire,” he says. Not a question and seemingly not even directed at you. Just words to fill the empty space. A man out of his depth and unsure of how to process this information.

You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand and realize with a grimace that you’re _soaked_ in blood. It’s painted a grisly streak down your front and soaked into your shirt.

_This was a new shirt, goddamn it._

All at once weakness sets in, the last of your strength used up as the consequences of the daylight settle in around you like a wet blanket.

Heavy and suffocating.

Suddenly, you’re staring at the floor on your hands and knees with no memory of getting there as a pair of boots enter your vision.

“You alright?” he asks and there it is again.

_Sympathy_.

He’s still cautious, however, and doesn’t touch you.

“I need to rest,” you say, your voice hoarse. “I’ve been out for too long.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a place in the woods near Valentine by the river where I--“ you pause, catching yourself.

_Where I’ve prepared a grave to bury myself alive._

“—set up camp,” you finish, awkwardly. “I’ll tell you where to go once we get there.”

“I’m takin’ you there, am I?”

“I didn’t think you came here to impress me with your charm, Mr. Morgan.”

He lets out a dry laugh, “I came here thinkin’ you was the one that might need savin’. Then I see you rippin’ out some O’Driscoll’s throat with your goddamn teeth.”

“Not like he didn’t deserve it. He deserved worse,” you say, getting up onto your knees until you’re sure that you can stand. You pick up your mask and try to clean it as best you can on Bag Man’s shirt before tucking it into your satchel.

“That’s not the _point_.”

“Listen, if I wanted to do anything like that to you it’s not like I haven’t had plenty of.. chances,” you say, your words faltering, suddenly too aware of the position you’re in.

On your knees, your face near Arthur’s groin from where you’re looking up his body to meet his eyes.

_Jesus Christ._

Given that there are two dead men in the room and the state you’re in you think it’s probably safe to assume that Arthur won’t notice the sudden shift in your demeanor. He certainly wouldn’t be getting the same ideas as you always seemed to when you were close to him.

Except that he _does_.

There’s a subtle change in his expression, his gaze darkening and you feel a bit dizzy for another reason as heat pools in your belly.

“Alright,” he says, his voice low. “Let’s go. Before I change my mind.”

Arthur grabs your arm and you think he’s just going to help you to your feet but surprises you by lifting you up into his arms with a muttered “You don’t weigh hardly anything.”

“Wait,” you say when he starts for the door.

“What is it?”

“I-I can’t go outside. In the sun I mean.”

“Of _course_ not,” he says in a way that suggests you thought he should have already known as much. He sets you down and takes off his coat. “Here,” he drapes it over your head covering your face and chest and you’re surrounded by his scent as he lifts you a second time.

You can hear his horse getting spooked once you’re outside. “Easy, girl,” Arthur tries to soothe the beast. He sets you up on the saddle and then climbs on behind you, arranging you so that you’re in his lap sitting side-saddle, his arm around you holding you in place.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m- thank you for coming after me,” you mumble out feeling uncharacteristically shy. You’re reminded of the night Arthur was taken only now your roles are reversed and he’s the one holding you.

He just grunts in response.

“You want to hear somethin’ strange?” Arthur asks after a while of being on the road. “After I was feelin’ up to it I went back to that spot where they was keepin’ me a couple of days ago. I was pretty out of it when I got away but I could still remember where it was.”

You say nothing.

“You know what I found? I found a lot of dead O’Driscolls yet not a single bullet hole. Ain’t that strange?”

“It is,” you say.

“Nobody had even left camp yet when I got back so who could have done such a thing, I wonder?”

“I wonder.”

You think you feel his arm tightening around you but it could just be your imagination.

~*~

“You sleep in a hole in the ground?” Arthur doesn’t sound as incredulous as you might have expected. Just tired and wary.

You’re already raking the dirt in over yourself covering your legs - your relief so profound it sinks into your bones. “I thought you knew about vampires,” you say unable to resist teasing him.

“Just a little. I thought y’all slept in coffins.”

You burst out laughing, “That’s a myth started from some writer’s imagination.”

“I see.”

“Thank you again for your help, Mr. Morgan. It seems fate wouldn’t have us part just yet.”

“Seems not,” he says, not sounding too pleased with your observation. Then again, Arthur never sounds too pleased with much of anything. You offer him a crooked smile, your scars tightening, and then finish covering yourself over, tucking your arms down at your sides.

The smell of smoke fills your nose as you dig yourself out unsure of how much time has passed. Curious, you go to it’s source cringing at the feeling of blood and dirt sticking to your skin and clothes.

Arthur has built a campfire nearby and the man himself is resting against a large rock, his hat down covering his eyes. You smirk upon discovering that he’s fallen asleep. He must have tried to stay awake and wait you out. Judging by the position of the moon you’d guess it’s about half past midnight.

You move to his side tilting your head as you study his sleeping form.

One hand is resting in his lap and the other is sprawled out on the ground next to you. You lightly trail your fingers down his arm but he doesn’t wake, just mumbles in his sleep.

“Ungh.. don’t tease that cow it’ll bite..”

You catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath. So, he hasn’t just fallen asleep he’s been drinking. Understandable, you suppose, with the day he’s had.

With a smirk you lean in and give him a none too gentle nip at his throat just beneath his ear, “It’s time to wake up, Mr. Morgan.”

“Jesus,” he shouts, lurching to his feet, his hat nearly flying off into the fire.

Arthur turns on you looking _furious_ and you can’t stop laughing.

“Do you wanna get shot? The hell is the matter with- you know what? Forget it. I’d be better off askin’ my horse.”

He rubs at his neck checking for blood. While you hadn’t bitten hard enough to cause bleeding it would probably leave a mark. Your thoughts wander at the idea of marking him all over and claiming him as yours, your good humor turning to something else that causes your lower belly to throb.

Arthur pinned down by the fire like before only not by the thrall but because he _wants_ it.

He wants _you_.

“I’m going to get cleaned up in the river,” you say, collecting some clean clothes from where you’ve hidden them. Arthur just grumbles in irritation while he digs through his saddle bag.

It hurts to see your ruined shirt float away downstream, unsalvageable from the bloodstains that have had too much time to settle in. It was one of your favorites out of all the clothing you’d bought for your journey.

_Goddamn O’Driscolls._

By the time you’re finished washing yourself you can smell some kind of meat cooking over at the campfire. Half way through getting dressed, you stop, as a devious smirk plays across your lips. Yet another opportunity to throw Arthur off-balance presents itself. While you couldn’t deny that things _were_ changing between you – you couldn’t resist teasing the man. His reactions were too enjoyable especially since he tried to maintain an air of callous indifference to most things. So you fold your pants over one arm and head back into the small clearing where Arthur is kneeling by the fire holding his knife. He turns it this way and that so whatever he’s cooking – more like _burning_ – will roast evenly over the flames.

He notices you, “I’d offer you some but, ah-“

Arthur goes silent as his eyes come up and land on your bare legs taking their time in the journey up your body to your open shirt. You’d settled on three buttons so that your breasts are fairly on display the fabric catching at your nipples hardened by the night chill - the only thing stopping your shirt from falling open entirely.

He swallows and forces his attention back down.

You seat yourself on the opposite side of the fire, your knees up and apart so that your shirt rides dangerously high over your bare sex. The sound of his heart goes unsteady and you feel the warm glow of satisfaction that your plan worked.

“Go ahead and ask me,” you say, taking up a stick to prod at the ground.

Your words cause Arthur to take notice of how you’re sitting when he looks back up, “Ask you what?”

“Anything. You must have questions about all of this.”

“I do. The real question is do I want to know the answers?”

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

You wait patiently for a time while Arthur chews and thinks things over before speaking, “How’d you know where I was after that meetin’ with Colm?”

“I followed your scent,” you say. “It wasn’t difficult. The same way I found you that night in your tent. You may be able to hide your scent from an animal but never from me, Mr. Morgan.”

You hadn’t intended for the last to sound threatening but you’d decided to be honest even if it meant being blunt. “I.. also know a man’s heart after drinking his blood. Everything he’s feeling, his thoughts, his memories all open up to me.”

“So you can read minds?”

“Crude but yes. That’s a fair definition.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me and Marston that first night?” Arthur asks this as if it’s been eating at him for a while.

“I was bored.. no that isn’t quite right. Certainly not anymore. I suppose.. I was lonely more than anything. I’d reached a point where I didn’t care who stepped into the kitchen that night. I just needed something _more_.” You can’t really put into words what you want to say to make him understand but it seems like he does nonetheless.

“That first night you asked me if I was an O’Driscoll. Why? What happened between you and them?”

You prod at a rock, digging it out of the ground, not meeting his eyes, “I was married, Mr. Morgan.”

“ _You?_ Married?”

You scowl at him, “Yes. Not for very long. He was killed in a highway robbery over a necklace. Or so I was told and I believed it at first.”

“I just ignored the truth. Saw what I wanted to see. I wanted pity, Mr. Morgan, as my life’s tale isn’t a happy one. Even if it meant that Andrew, my husband, was already seeing another woman before we were married. He couldn’t accept what I was, you see. He tolerated it which is more than most would do. I know I’m a fool for thinking that way. I see that now.”

“That’s terrible,” Arthur says and means it.

You continue, “He hardly ever wanted to make love to me. He wasn’t attracted to me because of the scars. Even if I wore the mask or if he had me from behind I could tell his mind was elsewhere, thinking of someone. The fear of being alone kept me from saying anything about it. My father had just died you see and I was still in mourning. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Your chest aches and you force yourself to keep going. “Then, one day he says, ‘I’m going to spend a night in Saint Denis on business. I’ll be back in the morning.’ I knew that he was lying but I just let him go because I didn’t know what else to do. What I didn’t know was that she was married too. Married to a gang member, an O’Driscoll who also knew about the affair except he didn’t let it go. He’d written to Andrew pretending to be his wife and wanted to meet.”

_“Shit,”_ Arthur says, a look of understanding washing over his face.

“Andrew was killed and the carriage driver was either bribed or intimidated to tell the story about a robbery. Or perhaps he’d even begged the driver in his final moments not to tell the law what really happened to spare my feelings.” You smack the rock with your stick sending it spinning off into the dark at the edge of the clearing.

“I went to his grave one night and there she was. His mistress, in the flesh because who would expect Andrew’s _actual wife_ to be there in the dead of night? She was weeping holding her flowers and when I saw her there I just..”

You stop, staring into the heart of the fire.

“What’d you do?”

“They’re together now,” you say, your voice devoid of emotion.

Arthur says nothing and you risk a glance at his face. He’s watching you with a thoughtful expression. “Did you go after that O’Driscoll feller? The husband?”

You shake your head, droplets of water falling from your hair, “I considered it. Then it occurred to me that he just reacted the way I should have. I shouldn’t have tried so hard to make Andrew stay. I shouldn’t have been such a goddamn coward, Mr. Morgan. The worst of it was how I could see myself in that woman he was with. Knowing if her husband ever found out what would happen but being so selfish and wanting everything at once without thinking of the consequences. Being willfully ignorant was my greatest sin.”

“Wish I could say I wasn’t guilty of the same,” Arthur murmurs to himself and you have some idea as to what or rather _who_ he’s referring to.

Neither of you say anything else for a while just listening to the soft crackling of the fire and the sounds of the night. Eventually, you break the somber tension that’s settled over the two of you, “You’re the only person I’ve ever told about all of this, Mr. Morgan. As far as the rest of the world knows Andrew Westerman died in a highway robbery. I’ve heard it so many times by now even _I_ started to believe it.”

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d think you was just a lady who had a hard go of things and not some blood-sucking monster,” he says.

Your eyebrows shoot up and without knowing why you _lose it,_ howling with laughter at his tactless remark, all of the feelings that had resurfaced while you spoke of your past vanishing.

When you see the corner of his mouth quirk up a little at your reaction you think that’s what he intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned the name of the fic in this chapter. Roll credits. But seriously part one of the big reveal and no smut. Thought maybe I should write some actual story and interaction between the characters ffs. Also this chapter isn't as long as the others but I thought this was a good place to split it before more exposition/smut happens and everybody gets an update yay.
> 
> Also also if this is total shit it's 2 am at the time of posting it so I may go back and edit it later on when I'm not half asleep. So if you notice any inconsistencies/weirdness with any of the chapters tell me so I can fix it.


	5. Chapter Five

You feel something you haven’t felt in a long time when you’re with Arthur Morgan.

You feel like you’re at home.

This is what you were missing without even realizing it. Someone who looks at you and doesn’t recoil in disgust from what you are. Someone who, in time, you think would come to understand you and perhaps even, dare you even think it, truly _care_ for you.

It's as if you've known each other for years already and are simply getting caught up.

“How did you get like that? With both your parents dead I’m guessin’ they wasn’t like you,” Arthur says, prompting you to continue.

“My mother was a prostitute and she died before I was bitten while giving birth. My father was someone of reputation who often called upon her. When she was with child he assumed I could be his and decided rather than have me born into that life he’d take me in instead. Her death made that easier I suppose.

I’m not originally from America, Mr. Morgan. I'm from Romania originally, along the Eastern border of Transylvania. My father and I lived in a castle there tucked away in the Carpathian mountains surrounded by forest. It frightened me a great deal when I was young as there were far too many rooms and father always locked himself away in the study leaving me alone most of the time. It was large enough even with the servants living and working there you hardly ever saw each other.”

Arthur listened intently to the next chapter of your story, his eyes bright where the flames danced and reflected within.

“I was in the back garden closest to the tree line when it happened. I was still a young girl at the time, couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. It was difficult to keep track of my birthday.

What I remember most clearly was the sense of unease in the moments before the vampire broke through the trees. He had clearly been tortured for days if not weeks as the first thing I noticed was he was missing a hand and there were wounds all over his body. He was so desperate for blood it was if he couldn’t even see me. He couldn’t hear my screaming for him to stop because it hurt _so much_. Have you ever been bitten by a snake Mr. Morgan?”

“Once. Back in Blackwater.”

“Becoming a vampire is similar to a snake bite. The vampire has to inject his venom in order for the next person to be infected. I don’t think he even meant to turn me—he was just too far gone to control himself.”

“That’s.. different than what I expected.”

“I prayed to anything that would listen just to make it _end_ and it seemed something did hear my prayers because one of the servants happened to come outside despite rarely having set foot in the garden. The vampire released me and ran back into the woods. It would be the last thing I saw as I fainted right after and slipped into a stupor.

My father brought in every doctor he could find but all of them came to the same conclusion. I should be awake but I simply wasn’t. It was around that time that he began losing his mind overcome with the guilt of it all and witnessing the horrors of my transformation.

My body grew cold, my skin turned ashen and eventually my teeth started to fall out. It’s hardly as romanticized as some writers describe the experience of becoming vampire nor as quick. It took several months before it was over and I regained my senses.”

You stop, eyeing the pot next to the fire. “Could you pour me some coffee, Mr. Morgan? If I’m to tell you the rest I could use a drink. Or if you have any whiskey on you that would be fine.”

Arthur blinks dazedly at the sudden change of subject, “Sure. You can drink anything other than blood?”

“Yes. Unless you’re offering more than coffee I’d be happy to—“

“No. Coffee,” he says far too quickly and you have to hide a snort.

He takes out two tin cups and a bottle of whiskey a third of the way full, spiking each cup with it after filling them with coffee, and handing one over. The coffee is bitter and the alcohol burns like hell but it’s what you needed and you appreciate the warmth in your chest that it gives.

You clear your throat before continuing, “After what I can only describe as my rebirth I awoke to find my father at my side, my hand grasped in both of his. I think if I hadn’t been attacked I wouldn't have enjoyed some of the best years with my father as sad as that seems.

In any case it was quickly made apparent that something had changed within me. While I could appreciate the taste of food or drink I found that my new appetite couldn’t be sated by anything I was given. As it stood my teeth had yet to come back so my meals had to be specially prepared in order for me to eat anything.

This went on for days until I caught a scent from the back garden, one that made my stomach growl in anticipation of something not yet realized. I crept through the castle and as luck would have it – it was one of the rare occasions when my father wasn’t close by so I made it outside fairly easily to investigate.

What I heard first were the screams, so high-pitched that I knew they could only be made by an animal, a rabbit as it turned out. It was caught in one of the snares in the underbrush and in it’s struggle the poor creature had doomed itself. The snare had cut deep into it’s leg and it was then that I knew what it was that I needed.

I took a few moments to comfort it before wringing it’s neck. That was the first time I drank blood, Mr. Morgan,” you run your tongue over the back of the points of your teeth at the memory.

“My father was… accepting of what happened when I told him about it scared half out of my mind. My clothes were soaked in the rabbit’s blood so I could hardly hide what I’d done since one of the servants near fainted when she saw me coming back inside,” you say with a wry smirk. “I think he already knew I wasn’t afflicted by any ordinary illness given the bizarre nature of my symptoms.”

“How things have changed,” Arthur says. “You certainly seem very confident of yourself now.”

“Indeed, Mr. Morgan. My becoming a vampire was something that I quickly overcame despite being only a child. My father swore the servants to secrecy before instructing them to collect the blood of any animals killed during their hunting and to bring it up to my room from that day forward.

After a time I began receiving my daily lessons and I continued to develop into a mostly normal young woman. I’m not sure how old I was for certain when I stopped aging as I said before it wasn’t really something I thought of all that often. 

Around that time word had reached the castle that more people were getting infected, mostly children it seemed, and there was a doctor seeking out the afflicted so that he could perform experiments on them and perhaps find a cure. When the day came that this doctor arrived at the castle my father agreed that I should go with him if there was any chance of him discovering a cure. However, when I met with that doctor I knew – _I knew_ that something wasn’t right, but back then I thought that being a vampire was the worst thing that could have happened to me. I was willing to do whatever it took to return to being normal.

I’ll never understand how someone that _young_ could be so goddamned cruel. Yet there was no malice behind any of it. As if he were a boy pulling at the wings of a butterfly simply to see what would happen. I suppose that’s true in a way – vampirism was an entirely new concept bringing the realms of fantasy and science together into something horrific. Something made worse by this doctor and his _curiosity_.

He introduced himself as Victor and said that I should call him as such. We spoke for a short while and I said my farewells to my father before departing. It would be the last time I saw him for the next seven years.”

“ _Seven years?_ ” Arthur sounds astonished. “He never came to see you? He wasn’t worried?”

“The doctor turned anyone who came to the castle away claiming there would be no visitors or outsiders allowed to avoid further affliction. He made no mention of such a thing while speaking with my father and I. I have no doubt it was the same with the rest of his ‘patients’.

Once I was inside he—“

You stop, twisting the bottom of your shirt between your hands until you come to a decision within yourself and stand walking over to Arthur’s side of the fire and unbuttoning your shirt along the way.

You let it flutter down over your arms to the ground. “He started cutting me. Surgery after surgery pushing me to the utmost limits of my sanity all while I was still fully aware.”

Yes, you remember that final evening very, very clearly amidst all the other evenings you’d spent with the doctor.

Something was different about him that day, his eyes wilder than usual in his agitation. It had been three years since he’d taken you into that hellish prison. Some of the others had expired, their bodies simply unable to withstand the torture inflicted upon them day after day.

But not you.

You were special.

Victor knew it too and spent more time with you than the others. On the last day there was nothing practiced in his cuts or gentle in the way he touched you – laying you open amidst your screams choked off by your own blood.

Every day he injected you with some new concoction from his laboratory and every day he cut and probed checking the results. On that final day you remember looking down yourself and seeing your own ribs spread open by some type of surgical instrument while that young man, the man that had smiled at you on your first meeting, carelessly took you apart until you broke.

It was such a strange thing seeing your own live dissection.

Your vampirism and your longing to be released from that hell which you found yourself and your host, the devil called Victor were at odds and it was obvious which one would succeed in the struggle.

Survival or death.

You knew which one would be easier but it was no longer under your control.

The others had been lucky, you’d come to realize, that their affliction hadn’t had _years_ to spread it’s roots deep within.

When he was finished with you at long last he buried you alive believing that you were dead.

You finally knew the peace of dreamless sleep.

“Dear _God_.”

Arthur’s voice brings you back to a crackling fire and blue green eyes that stare up at you in horror. Not masked repulsion as you’d seen in your husband’s eyes the first night he’d wanted to make love as if he were fulfilling a duty by showing you pity when you needed it.

Now the fire tells all of your secrets, your multitude of scars on display in it’s warm glow.

_If I can’t leave you then I want you to know who I am, Arthur Morgan. As I know you. If you decide that you never want to see me again then I’ll return to my estate and that will be the end of it._

_I await your answer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick and I hope this turned out ok.


End file.
